


Fake Sam

by Yuval25



Series: All My Son [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dean comes back, Dean has a sister named Samantha, Drama, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Just read the prequel..., Re-born?, Sam Winchester is Not a Winchester, Sam exists, Siblings, This Is Her Story, Wincest - Freeform, maybe later - Freeform, this is a sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 21:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12094080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuval25/pseuds/Yuval25
Summary: Her brother never called her by her name. Just Fake Sam.Dean comes back on her birthday.





	Fake Sam

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to 'All My Son', a Mary-centric one-shot set in a world where instead of Sam, a Samantha was born, and Dean eventually takes off to look for the 'real' Sam.  
> Read the prequel before reading this, or else nothing here will make much sense.  
> I'm planning to make this a multi-chapter, but have made no decision regarding Wincest in this fic. Let me know if that's something you would like to see!  
> Please share your thoughts :)

Dean comes back on her birthday.

They hadn't believed it at first, when they had read the postcard – Grand Canyon spread out on one shiny side of what must be the most touristy piece of crap the souvenir shop had to offer – stating in a hurriedly-scrawled but achingly familiar handwriting that 'I got him. We're coming home. –D'. _We_ , he wrote, and _home_. Sam remembers all the times he had called her _Fake Sam_ with that jabbing tone he only ever used when he was supremely pissed off or upset – pretty much constantly, ever since she can remember – and kind of wants to smash her fist into someone's face. Her brother never called her by her name. Not even her full, only-when-angry 'Samantha'. Just Fake Sam. Or sis. She likes sis. Hates Fake Sam. She's the original, damn it.

She doesn't want to believe. Doesn't want to hope. Four years without a word from Dean, without a letter or a voicemail or a fucking smoke signal, something, anything to indicate that he's still alive. And then he just… shows up, knocks on the door like he's a stranger – and maybe he is, sometimes it feels like he is – on the morning of her birthday, just as she's ready to step outside with her backpack thrown over her shoulder. There's not much to do at school, half the finals done with – aced them – and teachers not giving a shit about curriculum when there are only three students that maintain attendance while the rest sleep through the afternoon like they had already graduated.

She gives a mental apology to Mr. Buckner, the cross-eyed literature teacher who reads them Catcher in the Rye like nobody's business and plays jazz in a band whose performances she sometimes gets emails about, since there'll be two students sitting in that class today, not three, because Dean is just there, and the car Dad had given him for his seventeenth birthday is parked next to Mom's Toyota Corola, and there's a boy shuffling back and forth on his heels in his worn sneakers behind him.

"Sis," Dean says.

She slams the door in his face. Locks it. Considers pinning a chair under the door handle.

"Sam?" she hears Mom's voice before she sees her, plate in one hand and kitchen towel in the other, drying, apparently.

"I'm skipping school today," Sam says, steps quick as she passes Mom in the hall before skipping up the stairs, taking two at a time. Her legs are long enough for three, but she doesn't want to risk falling and breaking her nose and having _Dean_ drive her to the hospital, probably with that _boy_ in the front seat instead of her.

She knows it's childish, and she's _eighteen_ – happy fucking birthday to her – but she can't stop herself from grabbing a blank A4 from the printer her Dad had set up in her room last year when she'd had to print things in the middle of the night and he hadn't wanted to be woken up by the noise. She scribbles a bold, angry 'GO **_AWAY_** DEAN', all capitals. It's her answer to all those times Dean had taped a sign to the door of his bedroom, declaring it 'Dean's Room – Sis Not Allowed'.

She's out of scotch tape, so she staples the damn thing instead. The pins dig into the outside of her door crookedly but hold, and she spares a moment to admire her handiwork before she slams the door shut, locks it, and curls up on her bed, unsure if the sound stuck in her throat is a sob or hysterical laughter.

She tries not to hear what's going on downstairs. Tries not to catch the introductions – "Mom, Dad, this is Sam." _God that hurts more every time_ – or the laughter or the heartfelt reunion. But you can hear everything from her room, everything. You can hear Mom cooking in the morning, and Dad watching the game at 2AM, and Dean screaming himself awake, her name – or perhaps not, since she is _Fake_ Sam, after all – on his lips as he thrashes, legs and elbows hitting the wall their bedrooms share, caught up in his nightmare.

Unfamiliar steps thunder up the stairs, and it's not Mom, and it's not Dad, and that _boy_ wouldn't _dare_ – she'd fucking destroy that fucker before she let him into her room, because it's _her_ room, Sam's room, and this _boy_ , this _Sam_ , in _this_ room? There's a line. There's a _goddamn_ line – so it has to be Dean. It stings to realize that she doesn't even recognize her own brother's footsteps. It's been so long.

There's a ripping sound, and Dean – no fucking respect for personal boundaries or anything Sam does, wants, begs for – wiggles the knob. She'd locked it, she thinks with a smirk. It falls off her face when the door opens anyway, and her eyes snap up to see Dean's sheepish grin as he fiddles with a crooked paperclip, stowing it back in his pocket. He puts the crumbled pieces of paper on her desk, and the trash can is _right there_ , can't he make the goddamn effort?

She doesn't speak first. Anything that comes out of her mouth right now wouldn't be something she'd be proud of later. She's not a thirteen year old girl doodling curved Latin letters she had learned from Dean in her notebook anymore, while the other girls in her class doodled hearts surrounding the name of their crush. She barely even remembers how to draw the circles he'd shown her, but that's okay, because they had carved them on the inside of her door – she hides that with a Queen concert poster now – and no matter how hard Sam had tried to scrub floorboard, Dean's magic permanent paint hadn't faded. Sam had thrown a fluffy rug over it, but she is secretly glad that it's still there. It makes her feel safer. Which is stupid, since it's probably just something Dean had pulled off the internet or something.

"Sis," Dean finally succumbs. Sam rolls and turns her back to him. She can't look at him. It hurts too much. Her heart feels like someone is squeezing it in their hand, a sharp pain like she'd been stabbed, like a broken rib. "C'mon, sis. Look, I'm sorry-"

"Shut up," she gasps breathlessly, and tears begin to fall off her eyelashes onto the floral patterned bedspread she had gotten on that shopping spree with Mom a couple of months ago. "Leave."

"I ain't leavin'."

She grits her teeth. She hates him. She _hates_ Dean and his stupid, familiar, older face. His stupid, comforting, rougher voice. His stupid fucking _everything_.

She can't be here. She can't be in the same room with him.

Avoiding his eyes, she gets up and starts walking with quick strides to the still open door. If he won't leave, then she will.

He catches her wrist before she can make it to the door, half-way across the carpet that hides the permanently-inked protection circle. She's probably standing right in the middle of it, and that thought makes her both angry and relieved. The strange feeling of safety combined with the fury at what must have been an intentional – she can see it in Dean's eyes, that he stopped here there deliberately – move on Dean's part.

"Let go," she growls, trying to wrench her hand out of his tight grip. His fingers are rough and warm, and stronger than she'd remembered.

She's looking at his boots instead of meeting his eyes. They look worn but comfortably so, the way boots get after adjusting to the person's feet after a few years, the well-used way that means they're soft and flexible just in the right way, a little scrapped around the heel and toe but otherwise in good shape. Obviously cared for, but put to tests.

"No, wait, listen-" he starts, but she doesn't let him finish. Nothing he can say right now would make her feel any better. The damage had already been done.

"You _replaced_ me!" she screams, and she hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to reveal so much, but Dean has always had that effect on her. Somehow, he's always managed to make her spill her secrets to him, to make her feel safe enough in his company to share what's on her mind. It's probably just what big brothers are, but to Sam Dean has always been more than that. A role model, a brother, a partner-in-crime. Her closest friend. Up until he up and disappeared, that is.

He lets go, because of course he lets go. He's a coward, he's a…

She struggles to draw in a breath, like someone's crushing her windpipe, and suddenly there's not enough air in the room, not enough space in her lungs for a deep inhale. She feels dizzy, and there's a sinking pit in her stomach. Nausea creeps in and the walls seem to close in on her all at once. The circle under her feet, under the carpet, doesn't feel so secure anymore.

She needs to sit down.

Dean catches her when she starts to wobble on her feet. She notes absentmindedly that his hands are warm, firm, and that he smells like something sharp, like how Dad smells after he comes back from the shooting range – once a week, like clockwork – or how Mom smells after she spends an afternoon wearing the leather jacket Dean had left behind when he'd left them. She still wears it around the house and sometimes even to work. She's just as tall as Dean had been, and though it's a little big around her shoulders – okay, a lot big – it fits her, in a strange, used-to-wear-these-all-the-time way.

With the help of her brother, she makes her way back to the bed – out of the circle, she notes absent-mindedly – and sits down slowly. The room is still spinning, her head still pounding and her breath still shallow and quick, but the presence of Dean so close to her does its magic and she slowly starts to feel like this dizzy blur of shock is fading.

Which leaves her sitting on her bed, with Dean's arms around her, the door still open, and the unnatural silence downstairs. She realizes her parents – and that _boy_ – must have heard her, and flushes in deep embarrassment.

"Go away, Dean," she repeats the words in her note, the note Dean had ripped and crumpled and lay on her desk, her voice weak, no strength left. She feels exhausted.

"Sis…"

"Leave me alone."

"Okay, but would you come back downstairs?" he asks, sounding hopeful. She wants to cry again, but it feels like too much effort right now. She's really tired all of a sudden.

"No."

"Later?"

She purses her lips. She wants to say no, but she has to go downstairs eventually, to eat and go to school and talk to her parents. But she doesn't want to tell Dean that, doesn't want to give him that reassurance. She wants to be pitiful and childish and stomp her foot, saying she'll never go downstairs, stay in her room forever, maybe tie her lacy white window curtains and use them to sneak out the window to scavenger for food and water.

She keeps her mouth shut, waits Dean out. She has always been more stubborn than him, ever since they were children, she would give him the silent treatment while he would scream at her and curse and snap and throw insults and empty threats – as a young child, she hadn't realized they were empty, and had taken cover, hidden under his bed (god knew why she chose his bed rather than hers, probably because despite her fear she had always seen Dean as a protective figure, as someone safe whose room was safe and presence safe and just plain safe) and waiting for the storm to pass – and say things like "You're not Sam" and "I wish you'd never existed" and "I hate you".

She'd used to compare notes with her classmate Abigail, a redhead from a low socio-economic background and a smile that used to make the elastics on her early braces show their ever-changing colors proudly. Abby's older foster brother used to call her names and burst into her room while she did her homework and tear them up or break her stuff. Dean used to seethe in rage and call her _fake_ and _not real_ and say it's her fault – though she never knew _what_ , exactly, was her fault – and then storm away and wreck his _own_ room until he found out she was there. For some reason, finding Sam hiding under his bed had always seemed to take the wind out of his sails.

True to pattern, Dean gets up after a few minutes of just holding her, and leaves the room, leaving Sam feeling empty and exhausted and confused and with a lump in her throat that makes breathing and swallowing difficult. As soon as the door clicks shut behind her brother, Sam buries her head in her pillow and gives in to the urge to cry, the sound of the sobs muffled enough not to alert the other occupants of the house even though they are probably plenty aware of her emotional state after hearing her terrifyingly honest, loud accusation a few minutes ago.

She stays there, sniffling quietly, using up all of her tissue paper. She gets up grouchily, muttering to herself about aim as she sets about collecting all of the balled up tissue papers that had missed their target (the trash can, naturally) and tossing them into the white plastic bin she'd gotten at IKEA a couple of years ago.

Deciding there's no point in crying if there's no means of blowing her nose, she collects her hair – which has fallen into a state of disarray from rubbing on the pillow as she cried – and pins it to the back of her scalp with a black hair claw. She throws a look in the full body mirror to make sure she's decent – shirt creased, eyes puffy and red, skinny jeans… probably as decent as she's going to get – and opens the door with a scowl.

She's not exactly expecting anyone – _Dean_ – to be waiting right outside her door with a groveling apology, she's not. But, well. It's a bit disappointing to see that nobody gives a damn that she's just spent the last – brief glance at her wrist watch – hour and a half locked up – or not, since Dean is a _jerk_ and picked her lock – in her room crying. It sucks.

It's nine thirty so Mom's at work and Dad is at the garage working on engines and stuff – she's never taken the time to really get a feel of what her Dad does on those ancient cars he stocks up on from god knows where – and Dean is either downstairs, in his room – Mom had refused to pack his stuff away, convinced he'd come back, and neither Sam nor Dad had the courage to tell the fierce mother-bear of a woman otherwise – or out.

Sam decides that it's sixty six point many-fucking-six's in her favor, and trudges down the stairs with hunched shoulders and sinuses thoroughly congested – crying was a bad, _bad_ idea – with one hand on the rail because she doesn't particularly care for another sprained ankle.

Math is a total bitch, because Dean is in the living room, sprawled on the couch like he owns the goddamn place and with his feet propped up on the coffee table – his stinky, sockless, naked ugly huge-ass feet that she remembers prodding her whenever Dean felt bored and fidgety and wanted her to come play with him outside – crossed at the ankles, toes flexing in time with the Big Bang Theory opening theme song. One of his hands is resting on the armrest, fingers tapping against the worn brown leather like they're playing hopscotch. The other hand is buried in the mop of hair adorning the head in his lap, the head that belongs to that _boy_. That- that fucking-

She steps as quietly as she can to the kitchen, hoping they hadn't heard her. Or seen her. The couch is angled in such a way that the seated can easily see both the front door and the stairs to the second floor with just a small turn of the head. It's convenient because Dean had had a phase which had included startling her within an inch of her life, appearing out of nowhere with a booming bark of ' ** _Sis!_** ' and a sudden shove. She'd used to jump so high her heart had felt like it'd stayed up there when she'd come back down, thumping furiously in her chest. It'd gotten so bad that Dean had barely needed to do anything to startle her. He would sit across from her, actually in her line of sight, and give a sudden shout of **_SIS-!_** without even getting out of his chair, and she would have a tiny heart attack. So being able to see the major entry points to the living room, yeah, that'd been pretty helpful.

Right now, Sam wants to find out the home address of that home fucking décor graduate her mother had hired to design the layout of the first floor and send the guy something that explodes like those bombs in the action films Dean had liked to mock when they were children.

When she sneaks back from the kitchen to the stairway after shoving down cold fettucine Bolognese like the world was coming to an end, she can't help the glance she sneaks at the pair lounging on the couch. At first, it seems like nothing had changed in their position, but then she quickly does a double-take and her jaw falls open a bit because-

Well, there is no gentle way to say this. The boy using her brother's thighs as a personal pillow had turned around and now faces Dean's stomach, face so close to it that his nose must be touching Dean's shirt. And that's- well, that's-

Sam knows about sex, okay. She hasn't had the pleasure – pun intended, dammit – of indulging in it yet, hasn't even had a proper boyfriend yet – and she blames that on deeply-rooted, unresolved big-brother issues, since she just can't _trust_ anybody who flirts with her anymore, okay, and the fact that Dean used to flirt with her back when she was thirteen and growing aware of why boys were not yucky sort of messed her up, even if she knows, had known at the time, that Dean had never meant those suggestive eyebrows and come-hither smirks to be anything more than a playful banter that siblings sometimes fall into – but she knows about sex. And she knows that when someone has their head in someone else's lap, face practically nuzzling that someone's crotch – okay, she can't really see anything beyond that hair and Dean's hand, and there doesn't _actually_ seem to be any nuzzling going on, but mere _friends_ have _no_ business being _that_ _close_ – it means that she should fuck the hell off and not come back for at least thirty minutes. She may have deeply-rooted, unresolved big-brother issues here, but there is a limit. And that limit is seeing her brother naked. Talk about boys being yucky…

She slips on a step and ends up nearly gutted by the sharp stair edges, naturally. The wood digs into her upper arms and, damn, fuck, why do breasts hurt so much when they're hit? She had miraculously managed to remain silent during her fall, the scrape of her bare feet against the wood hardly audible over the loud way Sheldon Cooper proclaims to have found a formula that does whatever-the-fuck – Sam used to love that show, up until Dean and his goddamn puppy boy-toy used it to enhance sexual tension or whatever those two are doing on that couch.

Tears stinging in her eyes, she scrambles back into her room and heads straight for the bed. Only twelve hours to go before this day is over. Whoopee-fucking-doo.

And she forgot to get the tissue paper.


End file.
